Dolores J Rising
by Sanvean17
Summary: Seventeen-year-old Dolores Rising stared at the television in envy. Watching Angela Chase and her So-Called Life made her feel sick to her stomach. Dolores hung her head. Why did she have to be born autistic?
1. Chapter 1: Envy

Dolores J. Rising

_Eric's graduation party was simple and enjoyable - for everyone but me. I sat there sulking in the corner of the tent dad had set up in the backyard. Everyone else stood around and talked, or maybe snapped a picture. Some of my brother's friends were there, including Elisabeth, even though they just broke up. I reluctantly ate a slice of ice cream cake as Grandma Rising talked my ear off, asking about school and if I had a boyfriend yet. I did my best to look her in the eye and think of something decent to say, but no matter how hard I tried, my gaze kept wandering back to the paper plate. _

Written by Darlene R.

Dolores sat solemnly on the couch. It was only six o'clock at night, yet she was already in her pajamas, hand-me-downs from her brother. A pair of old boxers and some t-shirt of a band she didn't like.  
Dolores flipped around the channels, hoping for something decent on TV. There were alot of re-runs during the summer, though summer was almost over. In just under a week, she'd be starting her junior year.

An imitation of teenage drama flashed onto the television. Dolores sat back and took a breath. At least, to her, it was educational. Though at the same time, the antics of Angela Chase and her _So-Called Life _were nauseating.  
Angela was fifteen-year-old and on her way, riding on the wings of her friends and in the back of Catalano's car. Dolores, on the other hand, would be eighteen in the spring and hadn't even started to find her way.

Dolores had yet to even experience her first kiss.

She pressed the OFF button on the remote, staring at the blank screen. As usual on the summer nights. There was never much to do. It was a rare occasion, however, that her mother Helen had the night off. She could hear her fumbling in the kitchen, preparing the homemade meal of the week.

Some kind of hamburger casserole. From a box.

Dolores lay back on the old red sofa and stared up at the ceiling blankly. It had only been about two weeks since Eric left for college in Vermont. But it felt a lot longer. Eric was all she ever had. He was the only one to hold her hand when life got tough, and for Dolores Rising, nothing ever came easy.

No one outside the yellow house on Sumner Avenue seemed to understand her. That despite her lack of friendships, how she tried so hard. Or why it had taken her so long to tie her laces or ride a bike.

Even at the age of seventeen, she still wasn't too confident on her bicycle.

She knew the neighbors heard her screaming, every stupid fit of rage that sometimes she herself didn't even understand. Or the noises she made at school, sometimes, when she felt nervous or alone. Or how a person so articulate, so intelligent, could sometimes be so stupid.

How none of it was her fault, for the most part. That she was born this way.

And in a mere five days away, she'd be back in the walls of White Oak High School, at best ostracised, and at worst, tormented. Though she did have to admit, since she started high school, her peers had been more indifferent. But even without the pushing, the taunting, or having her lunch box smeared with dog shit (which had happened in sixth grade) Dolores had to say - the indifference was almost worse.

"Lo, dinner's ready" called Helen from the kitchen. Dolores got up and off the couch.

_"Just five more days."_


	2. Chapter 2: A Summer's Night

Dolores J. Rising

_You know those hot summer nights, when it's just too disgusting to sleep? Well, last night was one of those._

By Darlene R.

Dolores Jane Rising was seventeen-years-old and an atypical plain-Jane. She was tall and skinny, almost bony, with pale blonde hair and even paler skin. Her face was unremarkable, but in its own way, pretty, with wide rosy lips and small brown eyes.

She rolled over in her bed, arms holding her shoulders, making up for the comfort that failed to linger there. She had been laying in bed for hours now, drifting in and out of sleep. Too wound up to shut her eyes, too exhausted to read.

Dolores loved to read. She had always been notorious for having her nose in a book, so to speak. She wasn't terribly crazy about fiction, but she really loved Egyptology. And astronomy.

Dolores had always been an intellectual and had a remarkable way with words. At the age of nine months, she was already speaking in sentences. Unlike others with her condition, who sometimes never spoke a word in their lifetime.

_Who knows what the lesser evil is,_ she thought. _I doubt they even know there's something wrong with them. With every word or clumsy motion, I'm reminded I'm a defect. At least they get to be oblivous... __Mabye it would better if I were born retarded. _

Dolores stopped the tape of distraught spinning circles in her head. She was always taunting herself, always feeling sorry for herself, then scolding herself for it. But it was hard to ignore the imablance within her, caught uncomfortably between the norm and the disabled.

_God. I must be one hell of a villain to think of things like this. At least I can wipe my own ass.  
_That thought made her cringe again.

She huffed at the brief distraction of the sound of some asshole speeding down the street.

Legs tucked into her belly, she felt nervous. Nervous about going back to school. Dolores started thinking. About the people in the television. About the people at her high school. About herself.

About how far behind she was from the rest of them.

Seventeen-years-old. Still no driver's license, still no job. Matter of fact, it occured to her that she hadn't even _ridden_ in a vehicle piloted by a peer. No friends, no dates. Dolores was still a virgin. Even her lips were virgin.

She unconciously put her fingers to her mouth.

"Fuck" she whispered. "I don't even know it what it would feel like."

She pulled her hand away and stared back up at the ceiling. When her eyes darted back over at the clock, she saw the current time.

_1:04 AM. Another day down, I guess. _


	3. Chapter 3: The Perfect Fit

Dolores J. Rising

_Once, Eric bought me an issue of YM magazine. I think it had Drew Barrymore on the cover or something. Anyway, I ended up using it as paper mache for an upcoming (at the time - obviously) geography project. I know he was just trying to help my situation, rather than my mother's prefered fantasy of yanking off my baggy clothes and bringing out the make-up. But I've never been one for fashion. My one attempt to follow a fad was piercing my ears in the fourth grade. And that is all. _

By Darlene R.

_Back to school shopping. Well, sorta._

Dolores was tearing up the personal space of the late Eric Rising. On her knees in his closet, already in a mess, she fingered through his clothing. She was very particular about what she wore and had always been a bit of a tomboy. The only benefit of Eric's leaving was now she could borrow his clothes undisturbed.

She paused at a green flannel button-down and rubbed it thoughtfully between her fingers. Then, with a frown, she tossed the shirt aside.

"Like a fucking brillo pad" she grumbled.

That was one aspect of her condition: She was sensitive to touch. Not so much to human touch - she didn't mind the occasional hug, when expected - but frabrics. Having to wear something frizzy or silky could alone make a whole day hell.

After much consideration (and digging) Dolores found the perfect top. A simple red thermal, not too baggy or too small. She stood up from the cluttered floor and pulled her t-shirt over her head, revealing herself to the hanging mirror on Eric's closet door.

As she shook her white-blonde hair from her face, Dolores took a moment to study herself. Her arms hung at her sides, one hand holding the thermal, as she examined her frail body, wearing nothing but boots and jeans.

_"Bones for boobs!" _came to mind, as a younger Eric used to tease.  
Thank god puberty was done and gone.

Her face became quizical, unsure of how _she_ felt about her small frame. Her breasts were very tiny, mere pouches of skin. Her free hand, the right one, rose, and gentley, she groped it. Not enough to arouse herself - just so she could feel.

Unconciously, she rolled her eyes, and sat down on the bed. God - could she be any flatter? Dolores could hardly fill out an A cup. Although she was kind of glad that she rarely had to wear a bra. Like right now.

She stared back at herself in the mirror, forgetting what she had come to do.

_Oh. Right. _

When she did remember, she stood up and put the thermal on.

With her boyish body covered, Dolores looked back at her reflection, which really wasn't bad. With her favorite jeans (with the rip in the knee) she knew she could face the walls of White Oak High School feeling a little better.

_If only a little better._


	4. Chapter 4: Ritual

Dolores J. Rising

_I kept my finger on the button. Over and over again, I rewound the tape. I couldn't get enough of the climax, that beautiful mourning of Sanvean. That was the emotion. That was the agony in my bones of this Asperger Syndrome. _

By Darlene R.

Dolores sat in front of her desk, kneeling on the floor. She was lost in the enigmatic voice of Lisa Gerrard.

Finally, after minutes of repetition, she let the button go, allowing the song to play itself out. The music carried on. Dolores slouched and her head fell back.

_The saddest song in the world. _

It was beautiful. She had recieved the album _Toward the Within_ for her seventeenth birthday. From Helen.  
Even though her mother hated the music.

But Lisa spoke her language - Lisa spoke her _own _language. She had her own secret tongue that no one else could understand. Dolores had every single album of Dead Can Dance, and listened to them often. Even the poetry of Brendan Perry was soothing, in its own.

His brutal, atheistic naturalism and the raw emotions of Lisa - it was like they understood her.

Like _somebody_ understood.

Dolores turned her head and stared at her desk drawer. As she opened it, she took out her journal. Flipping through its pages, she found the entry on her mind.

_On my very darkest days, when I can hardly even look at my own family. When my rage is so explosive that the neighbors hear me scream. On those days I'd like to forsake this body, this broken mind with its broken wires - tangled in disfunction - I turn on my radio. I swear to god, she speaks to me.  
The dialouge of my life is a mutual misunderstanding - I misinterpret them. They fail to understand me. I tend to keep it together at school. There's been a few days here-and-there that I've hidden in the stairwell. Teachers never bother to write me up. There's no point, I guess, I never cause any trouble. Even though I would, if I could.  
But whatever. When I come home to this house, and mom's at work. And Eric's up in isolation, doing god-knows-what in his room or out living his life (I hate him) I turn on the radio. And I put on my DCD albums. And I cry. It's like mental bloodletting, it all comes pouring out of me. My head goes into labor. (Don't you love the bad poetry?)_

If the house is all my own, I play them in the downstairs stereo. And I crank the vol near maximum. And if I'm really bad, or really deep in thought, I just let it all go. It's like I'm in orbit. I do my circles round the kitchen table, and through the living room. Sometimes I'll stop and realise that I'm standing on my toes. I was a toe-walker as a baby. Supposedly that's a part of my stupidity.

Once mom caught me in my ritual. I didn't even hear her come into the house - only once she (so abruptly) turned off my music, screaming about the "fucking noise" did I see that she was there. I would compare it to being caught masturbating or something, not that I've ever had that experience, thank god.

She just stood there, staring at me. I'm not sure just what emotion came across her face. But her voice went quiet. And she asked if I was okay. Because I was shaking on my tiptoes. And tears were streaming down my face.

I'd rather be caught with my hand down my pants.


	5. Chapter 5: A Phone Call

Dolores J. Rising

_Eric called tonight. _

By Darlene R.

"...I've been okay. I guess."

Dolores held the phone to her mouth, speaking dryly to her brother. If Eric didn't know better, he would have thought that his phone call was posing as a nuisance. The lack of emotion in her voice, those drawn-out pauses. And Dolores never asked much more than an expected _how are you? _Even though it had been weeks since she'd last seen him face to face. As if she could hardly care to hear from him.

The truth was, she thought of him constantly.

Eric was pretty much her only friend, as he'd always been throughout her life. She had smiled when she picked up the receiver. It was one of the few things she could look forward to. And Eric knew that, even thought Dolores didn't show it. That's what kept their bond so strong - Eric understood.

The silence lingered.

Dolores tried to think of something to say, but not much had happened since the other weekend. She knew that the majority of her peers anticipated the summer, but Dolores, on the other hand, couldn't wait til it was over.

She either wrote or read her vacation away, only being interrupted by the pitied actions of some member of her family.

"Um... How's mom?" asked her brother.

Dolores leaned against the kitchen wall, the phone cord dangling beside her. She huffed.

"She's been working later, lately."

Pause.

"I kind of like it when she's working late. I can eat what I want. And I play my music as loud as I want to."

Eric chuckled. "Still listening to that goat lady?"

Dolores smirked. She knew this joke quite well. "What? You mean Lisa Gerrard?"

"Yes, that's the one. Can't blame mom for hating _that_."

They talked for about ten minutes longer, until Eric ended the conversation.

"Love you, too."

Dolores hung up the telephone and folded her arms across her chest. She just stood there for a moment, staring down at the floor. Thinking. She felt kind of bad, hoping she did alright.

But he _knew_ that school started tomorrow. He knew that she was nervous.

He knew she didn't have it in her to fake it - and that she shouldn't have to.

_Jesus christ, it's only Eric.  
_  
But even so, the feeling lingered.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._


	6. Chapter 6: PreCalculus

Dolores J. Rising

_"I felt a body invading the space, then the sound of a chair sliding out from its desk. I knew who it was - the only person here to voluntarily sit by me.  
Not that it meant anything."_

By Darlene R.

Dolores eagerly opened the door to 33 Sumner Avenue, dropping her backpack to the ground. Kicking off her shoes, allowing them to scrap against the walls, so carelessly, she hurried up to her room. She had tried so hard to control the emotion, the... Fear? Angst?

What the hell was she exactly feeling?

It was some kind of distress. God, did she feel stupid. For someone so articulate, she could could barely describe herself. Often, she merely reflected the words of others. Unless it was on her appearance, yes, that one she knew: Boyish. Plain.

And her very favorite: Flat.

She pushed the door open to her room, throwing her body into the door, even though she didn't have to. Tears were streaming down her face as she kneeled before her CD player, fumbling with her albums, opening up her copy of _Spleen and Ideal._ Crying hysterically, for some lost and unknown reason, she pressed the play button and buried her body under the covers of her bed.

_"I do not exist!"_ she wailed, under the gloom of DCD. _"I do not exist, I do not exist, I do not exist..."_

_-_

Nothing had happened to harm her. But, then again, nothing had _happened_. Or at least, not much.

No one even bothered to say hello to her on the bus, or in homeroom. She was in Mrs. Allen's HR this year. She was notorious for cracking down on gum. Which meant she'd pose a challenge to Dolores. But that was not her worry. Or her... DISTRESS.

_Was that the feeling?_

At her locker, no one had stopped. She had made her way through the winding, fluorescent hallway, crammed with people talking away. How stupid and rude it was, just standing in the middle. She did not hesitate to use her elbow, as she moved the bodies away.

There were two exchanges of words, with the exclusion of the staff. Because adults didn't matter. You can't go to the movies or fuck with your teacher.

Dolores had actually initiated a hello to a little freshman girl, some scared little thing with long black curls and a childish pink sweater. Despite her girly appearance, the girl reminded Dolores of herself: Afraid.

She couldn't look at her, however. Dolores just smiled at the floor as she walked by, whispering hi to the short kid in the sweater.

_Empathy. Sympathy._That's immediately the word that Dolores saw in her head, as she was sitting in Pre-Calculus, early for class, as always. You are always early when you have no one to talk to.

She heard someone approaching, then heard the screeching on the chair on the floor. Looking over her shoulder, beside her, there was Elise Barnes. A maternal figure in her school life - the only figure in her school life - choosing to sit beside her. And Dolores knew why.

Just like the last year. Dolores always needed her help. And how generous of Elise, who ran track and was on the honor roll.  
Well, supposedly, it was nice. But completely insincere. Elise was the type to pat Dolores on the back (which Dolores hated) and help explain the correct answer.

But Dolores didn't want help. She wanted friends. A friend.

_Just one fucking friend._


End file.
